Devil's Game (Reapers MC, #3)(5)

Jim loomed over her, sweaty and reeking of booze, shoulders heaving as he took deep breaths. His pants were already loose, hanging off his flabby, narrow hips, and his skinny dick bobbled like a drunken cobra.

“Leave her alone,” I said, letting all the hate constantly boiling inside me show. Jim turned toward me and grunted, his red, bloated nose a rotten tomato in the center of his face.

“Or what?”

“You’ll die,” said a low voice behind me. Then I heard the unmistakable sound of a gun being cocked.

We all froze as our next-door neighbor walked slowly into the room. He held his pistol casually, more like a TV remote than a weapon. An older guy—probably in his midfifties—and so far as I could tell, he spent most of his time out in his garage, tinkering with motorcycles he fixed up and sold.

In fact, I’d been eyeing his latest project, mentally tallying whether I could afford to buy it.

Burke.

That was his name. No idea if it was first or last. He was badass, too, with a long, graying beard and faded tattoos all over his arms. I knew he was part of a motorcycle club called the Devil’s Jacks from the patches on the leather vest he always wore. This was the first chance I’d gotten a good look at it. On one shoulder there was a red and white patch with “Burke” over the word “Original.” The other shoulder had a diamond that said “1%” on it. Down below was a long line of smaller patches listing names and dates.

His heavily tanned hand didn’t waver as he held the gun, his eyes as cold and dead as my own.

“Kelsey, get your ass out of here,” I ordered, keeping my voice steady. I really didn’t know Burke for shit, and I had no idea what he planned to do … But if I got Kels out safe, I honestly didn’t give a f*ck.

“Do what the kid says.”

Kelsey nodded, eyes wide, sliding off the bed and scuttling along the wall to get out.

“Go down to my room and wait,” I told her. “Lock the door and don’t open it for anyone but me.”

Time hung heavy as she disappeared.

“So whatcha gonna do, shoot me?” Jim slurred, his voice belligerent. Not the brightest man at the best of times, but when he got drunk, things really fell apart.

“Depends,” said Burke.

“On what?”

“The kid, here,” he replied, jerking his chin toward me. “You want to shoot this *, son?”

I glanced over, startled. His face was cold and serious—Burke wasn’t joking. Shit.

This was real.

“Think hard,” Burke said. “You pull the trigger, you can’t go back. But you won’t have to worry about him rapin’ your sister, either. We can make the body disappear.”

Jim’s eyes darted between us, wild with terror.

“Don’t listen to him,” he whispered. “You’ll go to jail. Death penalty. He’s talking about murder.”


“Unlikely,” Burke told him. “Never cared for you, Calloway. In fact, I don’t think one person on earth gives a f*ck if you live or die. Your wife is gone, your kids hate you, and according to the papers on your kitchen counter, you got no job. It’ll be like you never existed. Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy.”

“The social workers,” Jim gasped in desperation. “The social workers have to come check on the kids. They’ll notice.”

I couldn’t help myself—I started laughing. I hadn’t seen my social worker in over a year. If it weren’t for the state checks Jim drank up every month, I’d assume they’d lost my file. My foster father’s face reddened in rage, and I saw the exact moment his brain turned off and he forgot about the gun.

“I’ll kill you, you little shit,” he growled. “You think you’re so special but you’re trash. That little slut of yours is trash, too. Two piles of garbage stinking up my house.”

“Probably should decide soon, kid,” Burke muttered. “You wanna take him out or not?”

Did I want to kill him? I thought about Kelsey crying, and the time he’d broken my ribs when I refused to hand over a cut of my sales.

Fuckin’ A.

I definitely wanted to take him out.

“Give me the gun,” I said, the words tasting sweet.

Jim lunged toward us and the sudden, cracking echo of a gunshot rang through the room. My foster father screamed and fell to the floor, clutching his shoulder. Bright red blood oozed out between his fingers.

Burke didn’t even blink.

He just held his weapon firm, still trained on Jim, and reached around his back to pull a second pistol from his pants. Then he handed it to me.

It fit my hand perfectly.

“You know how to use it?” he asked.

I flipped off the safety and cocked it in answer.

“Finish him off, boy,” Burke said, smiling for the first time. Almost like a proud father. “You’re already in deep, so you might as well make it count.”

I centered the barrel on Jim’s chest and fired.

Looking back, the neighborhood had been exactly what we needed that day—nobody in it gave a f*ck about each other, because they didn’t give a f*ck about themselves. All of us were already dying slowly. When Burke and I sped up the process for my foster father that afternoon, the neighbors didn’t even notice.